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Portland Street, and I was walking past the
gardens on Sackville Street when I saw the car.” He put his glasses back on and looked expectantly at Ruth.
    â€œWhich car, Richard?” Ruth asked patiently.
    â€œThe coupé,” he said, in the injured tones of someone who thinks they’ve already made themselves abundantly clear. Poor misguided soul.
    â€œYou saw the car that you had reported stolen in the early hours of Wednesday morning?”
    â€œThat’s right,” he said. “Only, I wasn’t sure right away if it was the same one. It was the right model and the right color, but I couldn’t see if it was the right registration number. It had trade plates on, you see.”
    â€œTrade plates,” Ruth repeated as she scribbled. I was intrigued. Any self-respecting car thief would have smacked fake plates on a stolen car right away. I couldn’t for the life of me see why they’d use the red and white plates garages use to shift untaxed cars from one place to another. It was just asking to be noticed.
    â€œYeah, trade plates,” Richard said impatiently. “Anyway, I went over to this car, and I lifted up the trade plate on the front, and it was the same reg as the one that got nicked on Tuesday night,” Richard said triumphantly. He put his glasses on and grinned nervously at both of us. “It’s going to be OK, isn’t it?”
    Ruth nodded. “We’ll get it sorted out, Richard. Now, are you absolutely certain that this was the same car?”
    â€œI still had the keys on my key-ring,” he said. “It had one of those little cardboard tags on it with the number of the car, so I wasn’t just relying on my memory. It was the identical number. Besides, the key I had opened the car, and there was still one of my tapes in the cassette. Isn’t that proof enough?”
    â€œSomehow, I don’t think the point at issue is going to be the car,” I muttered quietly. Ruth gave me a look that would have curdled a piña colada.
    â€œDid you call the police and tell them you’d found the car?” Ruth asked.
    â€œWell, I figured that if I wandered off to look for a phone, the guy that had nicked it could easily have had it away again while I was busy talking to the Dibble. So I thought I’d just repo it myself
and call the cops when I got home,” Richard explained. It wasn’t so unreasonable. Even I had to concede that.
    â€œWhat did you do next?” Ruth said.
    â€œWell, I did what any reasonable person would have done,” Richard said. My heart sank. “I took the trade plates off and cobbed them in the gutter.”
    â€œYou cobbed them in the gutter?” Ruth and I chorused, neck and neck in the incredulity stakes.
    â€œOf course I did. They didn’t belong to me. I’m not a thief,” Richard said with a mixture of self-righteousness and naïvety that made my fingers itch with the desire to get round his throat.
    â€œIt didn’t occur to you that they might be helpful evidence for the police in catching the car thieves?” Ruth said, all silky savagery.
    â€œNo, it didn’t, I’m sorry. I’m not like you two. I don’t have a criminal sort of mind.”
    Ruth looked like she wanted to join me in the lynch mob. “Go on,” she said, her voice icy. “What did you do after you disposed of your corroboration?”
    â€œI got in the car and set off. I was nearly home when I saw the flashing blue lights in my rear-view mirror. I didn’t even pull over at first, because I wasn’t speeding or anything. Anyway, they cut me up at the lights on Upper Brook Street, and I realized it was me they were after. So I stopped. I opened the window a couple of inches, but before I could say anything, one of the busies opened the door and dragged me out of the motor. Next thing I know, I’m spread-eagled over the bonnet with a pair of handcuffs on and